Disclaimer:I am neither lucky, powerful, rich, or influential enough to own NCIS. If I did I certainly wouldn't be sitting around fantasying about it. (Ha! Who am I kidding, I still would!) But regardless, everything and everyone belongs to their respective studio's, corporations, and companies. (God damnit!) And thus, I own nothing but my rabid plot bunnies and hopeless dreams, thank you very much!
Authors Note #1: I must confess that I am especially looking for feedback on this chapter as it takes a whole other direction then the preseeding ones. It has always been my intention to do the story this way, but regardless I am slightly nervous. So, please tell me what you think.
Warnings: Violence, a bit of gore and language. (This will continue to apply for basically all the chapters. Spoilers: Anything up to the end of season six is fair game in my opinion. But nothing hugely specific other then for Season Five episode: "About Face." The famed 'Jimmy' episode.
Authors Note #2: Unlike in a Zoo, please feel free to feed the author! Your reviews not only give me a warm fuzzy feeling inside, but they also help me improve myself. Not to mention this is my first forray into NCIS fanfiction. So yes, please read and review.
It's a Rough Roadto Heroism
Chapter Four - "When burning bridges won't come down. Like symphonies without a sound. I spend these nights counting stars....And wonder if there's hope for me out there..."
...Meanwhile, across town...
He woke slowly, tasting stale coffee and sawdust on his tongue. The mix of the rough and smooth grains of the wood grazing the back of his head told him what he already knew; he had fallen asleep on top of the boat. Again. Shifting slightly he moved his spine from out of the gapping space between the unfinished wood boards, wriggling a bit until he found a comfortable position once again.
Minutely his ears picked up the subtle sounds all around him. The creak of the wooden boat below him, the slightest groaning shift of the house as it settled above him, and the quiet glush..glush... of the neighbours sprinklers.
.....'Sprinkers...must be coming on to 0200.' He thought distantly.
But for once he made no move to get up, knowing that he should probably get his ass up and into a real bed before his back started aching again, but instead, he ignored common sense and stubbornly stayed where he was, slipping easily back into that blissful state between sleep an wakefulness.
This case was a rough one, and not hard in any of the conventional ways either..it didn't involve some flamboyant psychopath going after children, or an egotistical mass murderer methodically selecting victim after victim. No this one was hard because it should have been so god damn simple to solve. But it wasn't.
It was a threat to their serving men and women and they had nothing! The few facts they did have were sparse at best, their other information being more conjecture and speculation then anything.
They were almost certain it was the work of some sort of group or gang. The attacks had far too many of the similar calling cards that gang organizations played when on a hit then for these attacks to be the work of an independent mass killer. A fact that only made their jobs that much harder.
So, they knew it was a gang.... But which gang, they did not know. Dinozzo and the local gang unit were all currently focusing on a strong theory that the murders were likely the work of a fledging chapter of some well established, American-based gang looking to grow roots in the city and garner respect and street credibility from the rival street gangs that were already established here.
Dinozzi himself was certain that if it was a gang based operation, that these murders were essentially an innovative initiation technique, having seen similar gang related crimes during his time in Baltimore. But at the same time, he did not discount the fact that it could even be some sort of central based attack on the institutions of military authority. He had agreed. There were just too many variables in this case for them to discount anything at this point.
They were nearly drowning in forensic evidence, with boot impressions, the odd smattering of the attacker's blood, hair fibres, and finger prints. Hell, they even had a honest to god patch of spit that they were able to collect off one of the victims uniforms, likely from where one of the bastards had paused to spit on them. And yet, despite all this evidence they had squat. There was only one certainty, only one out of the dozens of theories that were being brought up in the bull pen every day, they had solid, forensic evidence that the six consecutive murders that had been carried out thus far had been the work of dozens, if not more perpetrators. They were working in groups, not uncommon tactic for gang hits.
But despite all this evidence, every single DNA sample, finger print, bullet fragment, shell casing, and honest to god scrap of fabric that had been collected yielded them nothing. There were no matches in AFIS, or any other data base for that matter. Not one fingerprint had a match, not one yielded them a name. Not one.
It had gotten to the point that Abby had even retested every single sample countless times, despondently thinking that in her words: "there had to be something wrong with 'her babies' because they weren't talking." Scientifically, and even logically Abby was stupefied that in hundreds of samples, not one had yielded her even a breadcrumb. None of these bastards were in the system!
'You would think that the little shits would have had rap sheets as long as their mean streaks.' He had thought in vicious frustration after yet another fruitless trip to Abby's lab, having found that the lack of music in her rooms was almost as oppressive as the lack of results.
Abby kept insisting that the case was full of, as she called it 'bad energy, bad mojo', and as the weeks dragged on, and more bodies were wheeled downstairs, he found he was starting to partially agree with her.
Something about this case just didn't add up, and it wasn't just the lack of leads and solid facts either, it was something else.. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something deeper going on. And he knew it this time. He just didn't think it, or hope against at hope that he might just be getting a bit too paranoid in his middle age. No, this time he knew it. The feeling was nearly tangible, like he could almost smell it, and taste it in the air. A hint of something that was there, just out of his reach...
But even the strongest and most foreboding of gut feelings couldn't magically make the evidence they needed appear, so instead, they were left with only what they did have, a mountain of useless evidence and an office full of short tempers and building migraines.
All they were left with was six dead Marines with absolutely no connecting factors between them, other then the fact that they were all Marines. Each one had been beaten or shot to death, and all were missing their dog tags. Each victim was different from the one that had proceeded it, yet never was the next person startlingly unique either. They didn't look the same, or have the same gender or hair color; they didn't go to the same bars, have the same assignments, live in the same barracks, have the same CEO, the same habits or even take a piss in the same god damn bathroom. In fact, by all accounts, it was likely that none of the six victims had even passed each other on the street. They had nothing!
And as if that wasn't enough, other then the fact that they were convinced it was a street gang they had been unable to come up with little else then that. Usually a gang would at the very least subtly brag of their kills, or hype themselves amongst their peers and gang family. But not this time...
All the locally known gangs were remaining strangely closed-lipped about the murders. Vehemently denying their gangs involvement when NCIS and the gang units had brought them in for questioning. They didn't trash talk, gloat, or make even the slightly allusion to knowing anything more about it then they did. They were reluctant to even mention the news reports.
Even a probie knows it's a bad sign when a senior, tough as balls gang member of the La Vida Mala nearly pisses themselves in ingratiation when grilled for information about the killings. He had never seen the like, the La Vida Mala, so cocky, and self assured were now running scared and uncertain. They were intimidated by this spectre of a gang, one that for all intents and purposes didn't even exist.
It was as if all bets were off, with the last hand played and now they were all poised, tensely waiting for the final hand to strike... He didn't like it. Something more was off here, he just didn't know what. Yet.
Everyone was feeling the strain, tensions were running high, stress and anger were simmering much closer to the surface, and he knew it wasn't just him. He saw it in every tight, over-focused face at the office. He saw it in his team in the deeply-knitted lines on McGee's forehead as he poured over surveillance data until his eyes lost focus. It was reflected back at him in the quiet tension of Ziva's limbs and dangerous darkening glint in her sable eyes as she followed his every move.
He been on hand to witness it in the sizable dent Tony had left in his locker, the anger and frustration suddenly boiling over, gaining momentum and power like an overflowing kettle as it jets out the steam and spray in angry fits of noise.
He had only just turned the corner into the room, looking for the man in question when the echoing crack of the younger mans fist slamming against the metal wall echoed throughout the empty locker room. The lack of suspects and strong leads rendering Tony unable to do anything but vent his frustrations on the unsuspecting metal. Honestly, he had remembered thinking as he had watched the man breathing, taking short, frustrated breaths as he rested his forehead against the cool metal, he had been surprised that it hadn't happened sooner. Dinozzo was too much like himself in a lot of ways, they were the last vestiges of a dying breed in the force nowadays. A fact he was reminded of every day.
He had understood that anger. The sheer frustration and rage as the identity of the murders slipped through their fingers tips again and again.
After all, Tony didn't have a boat..
He saw it too in the growing silence of the forensics labs, Abby's garbage overflowing with Caf Pow containers until they had been stacked into each other in lopsided castles that rose out of the bin, tilting crazily in all directions.
It was in the frowning grimace, that would now stray across Ducky's face as he kneeled down beside the latest victim, before shaking his head in grim frustration he leaned down to whisper reassuringly into their unhearing ears, his touch softer, and manner much more subdued.
Hell, he had even walked in on Palmer the night before last as the young man was putting the latest victim, a striking female Sergeant to bed, closing the door on her with the utmost care before slumping up against the stainless steel door, uncharacteristically slipping his glasses off as he ran a hand up his face and into his hair, ruffling the thick curls as he blew out a frustrated breath. The kid stayed like that for a few long minutes before turning to eye the six occupied cold cupboards, each containing a victim of a crime that seemed nearly impossible to solve.
There seemed to be no end in sight. And it was only a matter of time now before Palmer would have to prep another table, and write up another identification card for the next victims temporary home...
His gut churned constantly now, perpetually roiling and chewing at his insides untill he was so constantly alert that he could have sworn that his very bone's hummed, vibrating with barely contained energy. Poised for action..on edge for the click that comes the second before the grenade goes off in your face...
Something was coming. Something big, something bad. He just knew it, knew it like he had known the very second he had seen Ari on that camera feed, grinning condescendingly up at them, that that was the face of killer. And kill he had, taking one of his own, leaving him with only an empty desk and a cold grave to visit.
He knew it wasn't going to be long before something snapped. The case was poised to break, they were right on the edge of something...right at the point were that last piece of earth that signals the cliffs ending, with the freedom of openly space beckoning. And it was either going to consume them all, or bring justice to those families, friends, and comrades that had lost a loved one due to this nightmare of a case.
He needed to end this case before the case ended them...
Even half-asleep, these thoughts made his body twitch, causing restless fingers to travel over the rough wooden surface of the boat, nails digging into the smoothly sanded wood at his side as if fighting for a hand-hold...A grip.
Fighting for the one simple piece that would fit into all the fragmented facts and half-certain assumptions and form a lead. All he needed was one hint, one whisper of information and he knew he could bring them down.. He just needed on -....
The sudden sensation of his cell vibrating against the wooden hull of his boat brought him back to full awareness, his eyes snapping open almost immediately, unfocusedly following the insistently buzzing phone as it vibrated dangerously close to the coal box, the glowing red embers reflecting brightly off the chrome finish.
Pulling himself upright, he slid gracefully down the hulls sloping side as he ran a tired hand across face, displacing his silver hair as he crushed his palms into his lids, scrubbing the last vestiges on sleep from his eyes. It wasn't until he had settled himself, tugging at his sweat shirt's collar as he did so, that he finally answered the phone.
But whatever preconceptions he might have had before answering were blown out of the water as his intense stare suddenly sharpened, so wholly focused on the words of the caller that he didn't even register the sound of the neighbours sprinklers gradually slowing to a stop, the noise of the early morning crickets rushing to fill the silence.
He knew it was the director before the other man had even opened his mouth, hearing that small, tell-a-tale noise that the toothpick made as it switched from one corner of his mouth to the other.
"Gibbs, we have a break in the case. We have a survivor, a junior Gunnery Sergeant found twenty minutes ago by a homeless guy down near the abandoned industry quarter off Head road, along side the docks. He should be at Bethesda now." He said in way of greeting, voice even and smooth, as if he hadn't likely just been woken up himself by the call.
This was it. The break they had been looking for. The missing clue, the wild card. It had finally appeared. The assholes had finally gotten sloppy.
"Condition?" He barked, already clipping on his gun holster and snagging his jacket from the railing as he double-timed it up the stairs.
"He is unconscious for now. The paramedic's stabilized him and they have him now in intensive care. Once the crew found out he was a Marine they put in the call." He replied, the sound of the toothpick scratching across the receiver audible even as the door slammed shut behind him as he made his way to the car.
"How do we know this was intended to be our seventh victim?" He questioned roughly, not bothering to quell his cynicism, unwilling to set his hopes too high, only too end up with nothing, like so many times before in this case.
"Well, for one thing.." Vance began, the tilt in his voice betraying his tightly wound enthusiasm. "He woke up half way to the hospital, grabbed one the EM's by the collar and managed to get out the words: 'NCIS, news reports, attackers, and gang tattoos' before he lost consciousness again. Nearly gave the two in the back a heart attack" He finished, amusement creeping into his tone as he spoke.
"Do we have anything else?" He demanded as he tossed himself carelessly into the drivers seat, the springs eliciting a small, but distressed squeal at the abrupt movement.
"That's what you and your team are going to find out. He may be our only link to these killers and I want you there now. This might be our only break." He replied determinedly.
"And Gibbs?" The director paused, the mans tone causing him to pause with the keys half turned in the ignition.
"You bring me those bastards." He ordered, the finality in his words for once in tune with his own mirroring their mutual frustration and anger.
The echoing slap of his cell phone flipping closed was the only answer either of them needed to hear as he slammed the car into drive and blew out of the driveway, screeching down the road and around the corner in less then twenty seconds flat, the sound of his screaming tires momentarily rendering even the most resilient of crickets absolutely silent.
A/N #1: I wanted to take a moment and thank all my reviewers thus far. I really appreciate your feedback. It encourages me to continue writing. I try to thank each and every reviewer personally, but if you review without an account I unfortunately can't, so here is MY thank you and Caf-Pows to you all!! (With a Jimmy shaped straw of course!) (Ah... mental images...I love my brain!)
A/N #2: Chapter title is lyrics from Thriving Ivory's song: "Runaway." I totally encourage you to listen to it! They are an awesome band and I really believe that this passage describes Gibbs state of mind in this chapter! Tell me if you like the song if you listen to it!
A/N #3: Just in case anyone has forgotten, the La Vida Mala gang made it's appearance in the NCIS episode: "Iced." (Remember the one where McGee proved his 'manilyness' and Gibb looked amused?) I figured it was best to work with what had already been put down as a basis in the canon of the show rather then create another gang. (Which doesn't really work out in real life, so they do it in fiction? Hah!)